Yes, I spose I'm sick. Nobody loves me. I'm too short. I can't get this Pelican off my head. I'm in the wrong country. I'm in the wrong century. I just can't cook rice well at all. I swear to god there's a shrunken twin living in my eye. And it knows French better than I do. Every time I mow the lawn, there are streaks of tall grass left. I can't seem to mow at all in the Wintertime. I keep having to buy new pillows because the old ones disappear under my bed. I still get ring-around-the collar. Everything I eat turns to shit. The last time I tried to make beer I blew up the guest room. I am being followed by a flock of seagulls. It will be my turn to die one day. I just got run over by a mail truck. The Martians won't stop sending me Fisher-Price toys. I never wash my feet anymore. Last Fourth of July I got the plague. And mange. My family keeps calling me Derek Taylor. I used a flea dip on my dog and she died from termite infestation. I keep taking the same third grade english test and being thrown out by security guards. I can never spend too much time in the sun or my reconstructed organs will melt. No one ever talks to me like I'm Dolly Parton anymore. She took my blow-drier. Just for once I'd like to go swimming and not have to deal with the tiny seahorses coming out my ears. I wrote a letter to George Bush saying he's free to leave, and he's in my kitchen now making a BLT sandwich. I thought I too was Episcopalian, only to find out yesterday that I am the lovechild of Regis Philbin. I can't spell for shit... watch... fer sheet! My middle name is Oklahoma and I am consequently besieged by the IRS. No one ever listens to me sing, "Boarderline," and Pedro farts like a mother-fucker.